Chapter Twenty-Two #2
“’Spect so, but I haven’t got their number. Too bloody expensive by half, trunk calls. My owners won’t stand for it.”
“Anyone have any questions?” Alec asked his men.
“The motor-lorries have the brewery’s name painted on the sides?” Tom asked.
“What d’you think? Not likely to pass up a chance for advertising, are they?”
“What does Rosworth look like?”
“We-ell, he’s not that big. About my height, but he don’t look brawny.
Strong as an ox, though. You have to be to shift them casks about, even with a Spanish windlass.
Mid-forties, like me. But he ain’t nothing special to look at, just ordinary.
Hair darkish, eyes—never noticed, to tell the truth.
You wouldn’t pick him out of a crowd, not even you lot. ”
“How big are these casks?” Mackinnon wanted to know. “The ones Rosworth delivers.”
Shadd waved his hands vaguely, then pointed into the dim recesses of the room. “There’s some over there.”
“Just tell us this,” said Ernie. “Could a man fit inside one?”
“They pickled Lord Nelson in a cask of rum, didn’t they? After Trafalgar?”
* * *
A few minutes later, they returned to the car.
Alec had given the landlord a severe warning about withholding evidence from the police.
In view of his eventual cooperation, though, he wasn’t going to charge him—unless Sergeant Harris was murdered because of the delay and it could be proved that earlier information might have saved him.
It would be difficult, Alec thought, considering they were still unsure of his name, let alone his whereabouts.
“Ernie, I take it you’ve got all those details committed to memory?”
“Course, Chief.”
“Then give your notebook to Mackinnon—you have a spare on you?”
“Course, Chief!”
“Mackinnon, we’re going to drop you at the nearest tube station—”
“Wood Green, Chief.” Ernie pressed the self-starter and they set off. Trust him, given a chance to glance at a map in advance, to know how to get from wherever they were to wherever they were going.
“Thank you. Mackinnon, you’ll go to the Yard.
You and the inspector on duty will put out an all-stations call, for both Rosworth and Sergeant Harris or Harrison, and a watch on all ports for Rosworth.
Don’t forget a warning that he’s armed. Not that we have much hope of finding him, with the rotten description we’ve got, if he’s had the sense to abandon his lorry.
You’ll also try to get the War Office records people back on the job, to find out what that damn sergeant’s name is and if possible where he is now.
I don’t expect much success with that till the morning. ”
“Yes, sir.”
“Failing immediate action from them, and I mean immediate, you’re going to have to get in touch with all the people we’ve already spoken to about Pelham’s regiment. Apart from laying our hands on Rosworth, it’s of the first importance to find out the sergeant’s name.”
“I understand, sir.”
“The rest of us will go straight to Hertford. You can get in touch through the station there. We’ll go to the brewery. With any luck we’ll find someone who can give us access to the office. Don’t they have to keep an eye on the beer constantly?”
“Sunday evening…” Tom said doubtfully.
“Well, if not, we’ll have to dig up—what’s his name?—the owner.” Alec had made no attempt to memorise the details, his mind busy planning the necessary moves even as he listened to Shadd.
“McMullen,” Ernie supplied, pulling up in front of the Wood Green underground station.
“Any questions, Mackinnon?”
“Aye, sir: Will I no need permission from Superintendent Crane, or even the Assistant Commissioner, for setting a watch on ports and such?”
“Technically, yes. But, as Tom has pointed out, it’s Sunday evening. If you can’t get the super on the phone first try, go ahead in the name of the Yard and hope no one asks who’s authorised it. I’ll take responsibility, of course.”
“Thank you, sir. Good luck.”
“And good luck to you,” Alec said as Mackinnon got out of the car.
They headed north towards Hertford. Most of the sparse traffic was moving in the opposite direction, returning to London after a day in the country. As the built-up area fell behind them, Ernie stepped on the accelerator.
“What did I say?” he crowed. “All three victims disappeared after visiting their local pub, and all the pubs were free houses. You even mentioned, Sarge, you’d had a pint of Hertford’s bitter at the Duke of York in Tunbridge Wells. No, I tell a lie, McMullen’s is what you said.”
“One or t’other, so I did.”
“Maybe Rosworth wouldn’t have got them—wouldn’t even have found them—if they’d stuck to tied pubs, or just pubs that didn’t sell Hertford Brewery’s ales.”
“It’s a sobering thought, laddie. The man had the patience of an ox. He must have been looking for them for years.”
“And laying his plans, Sarge. He had it pretty well taped. Bagged all three before we caught on.”
“The one we have to worry about now,” Alec reminded them, “is the fourth potential victim, Harris.”
“Maybe we just haven’t found his body yet, Chief. Maybe he does go to a tied pub, or maybe he doesn’t drink, or only at home. It’d make it hard for Rosworth to even find him, let alone give him an excuse to hang about long enough to come up with a different plan.”
“You’re full of theories, laddie. But I’ve got to admit, it makes sense.”
“What about your original theory, Ernie?” Alec asked. “The one you weren’t willing to propound without further evidence?”
“Stuffing them into empty barrels.” His attempt to sound modest was no great success.
“I mean, I thought maybe the murderer was a dray-man. That business of two of the landlords saying no strangers were there, that tipped me off. Who’s not a stranger yet not a local resident?
The dray-man, who delivers regularly. And if that’s what the murderer was, he’d have a good way to move ’em. ”
“A horribly unpleasant way,” Alec observed. “Tied up, crouching, or perhaps bent double, unable to stir. Probably not enough air, even with vent holes.”
“They must’ve been unconscious to start with, Chief, or he’d never have got them in. Good job none of them was as big as Mr. Tring.”
“On the contrary, laddie,” Tom said soberly. It might’ve saved their lives. But can you imagine what they felt like when they came round? Not only cramped and stuffy, and more than likely they had headaches, but not knowing what was going to happen to them.”
“Can you imagine what the boy, Sammy Rosworth, felt like?” Alec said soberly.
“Not to mention his father, when he heard. This is a murderer I can almost sympathise with.” Then he remembered Halliday’s daughter and Devine’s mother.
No, in spite of the results of Halliday’s rigid code and Devine’s weak character, they had not deserved such horrible deaths.
Nor had Sammy Rosworth.